


Collared Shirts

by Songofpsalms297



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Found Family, Hawke is a good friend, What do you call a friend who becomes family?, vague mentions of others like Dorian Bull Bran Revered Mother etc.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 18:29:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12753780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songofpsalms297/pseuds/Songofpsalms297
Summary: Varric prefers open-necked shirts. Possible thoughts as to why.Edited.





	Collared Shirts

He hated collars. For other reasons than the crime it would be to cover his magnificent chest hair. He fought the urge to pull, yank, unbutton, or otherwise indicate that the collar he was forced into wearing was bothering him at all. She would kill him. Messily. He would hold it together for her. Varric couldn't stop the smile that bloomed across his face. He glared at the snort he heard to his left. His irritated amber eyes met warm brown and his brother-in-arms refused to be daunted by Varric's glare.

Turning his gaze away from his best friend, Varric straightened his shirt before clasping his hands behind his back and putting on his best "official" face. He began to run story scenarios through his mind in an effort distract himself from the stiff collared shirt he was forced to wear. Momentarily clenching his fists, he was able to resist unbuttoning the first five buttons on this Maker forsaken shirt. If only. He sighed. He hated these collared shirts. Wearing one usually made fear creep up his spine until his palms had begun to sweat. Then the fear would continue to grow until sweat broke out across his forehead. This was not a good look for an author.

When he and Bartrand were younger they'd been fooling around by the docks, after having endured a Merchant's Guild meeting. They were both dressed in "a manner which honors true dwarven tradition." Which included collared shirt. Bartrand got in a lucky shot. Varric fell off the pier, only he fell a little too close to one of the pilings which had a bolt that had worked its way mostly out. His collar caught. He wasn't able to pull himself free, but Bartrand had jumped in and saved him. The process had taken far longer than it should have. Both boys had nearly drowned. Ever since that day, Varric had eschewed anything collared and neither he, nor Bartrand had gone swimming willingly again. Despite Hawke and Daisy's persistent attempts to get him to swim with them. Two people knew that story, and as far as Varric was concerned, no one else ever needed to know it.

Hawke knew. They had returned to the Hanged Man after Leandra's memorial service. Varric blamed it on the cheap Antivan Brandy he and Hawke had shared. As they gotten progressively more drunk, they begun sharing tales youthful adventure and the danger that danced attendance to youth’s stupidity and bravado. And the tale was told. Varric new Hawke would never tell another soul. He glanced at his best friend and smiled. He fidgeted, he hated waiting when he couldn't do something. Just standing around wasn't his thing. He caught the glare of the Revered Mother who was responsible for officiating this mess, riding herd on Hightown's packed Chantry and the giggle from Hawke which turned the full force of the Revered Mother's glare to him. Varric was grateful. He was gonna owe him a round when they went to the Hanged Man later.

Andraste's ass but he hated collared shirts. He'd endure for as long as he was supposed to. After all, she had willingly worn a dress for the occasion, he could deal with a collared shirt for a bit longer. At least until this circus was over. A soft symphony beckoned the attendees turn their focus toward the rear of the Chantry. As one, five hundred people turned to wait for the Maker's gift. Varric couldn't quash the feeling of excitement and joy that bubbled up inside. He earned another snicker from Hawke. His glare was reflex after all these years. He tried to keep from bouncing on his feet like a child eagerly awaiting their Saturnalia present.

In true Andrastian fashion, the groom waited by Andraste's statue, for the Maker's Gift to be presented to him by the Revered Mother. The bride was considered a gift to be treasured by her husband and his family. So Varric waited, bouncing on the balls of his feet, like a child. Desperately trying to retain some semblance of dignity for the office he held lest Bran's head explode, Varric took a deep breath. He smirked at the image. Tried to steady himself. And then he saw her.

Radiant in a soft cream gown which accentuated her tawny skin, she walked down the steps toward him. Her love sparkled in her eyes. Her lips curled in joy as her eyes locked with his. His writer's brain kicked in overdrive. She wasn't walking down those steps, she was stalking down them. Bit by bit, she drew ever closer to him, regal cast to her posture. His heart began pounding even as his smile broadened. He was one lucky son of a bitch. Everyone in Kirkwall knew it.

The Revered Mother placed Cassandra's hand in his. The feeling of being home was almost overwhelming. He didn’t notice the joyful tears that escaped him while Cassandra turned to him, her voice wavering with emotion as she spoke her promise to stand by his side in their shared life. An echoing tear rolled down her face as he spoke his promise to honor her, and stand by her side all the days of their life. The Revered Mother covered their joined hands with hers, sealing their vows with a guarantee they would be rejoined in the Maker’s light when they were done their work in this life.

The party at the Hanged Man lasted for days. Bull and Dorian had been thrown out of the Viscount’s keep for “shenanigans unbecoming diplomats” or some such nonsense. Varric’s eyes had glazed over during Bran’s rant. To be fair, he was quite distracted by Cassandra’s wandering fingers at the time. She had been slowly unbuttoning his shirt with one hand while trying to trap his wandering one which was climbing up her thigh. Bran had eventually given up and stormed off.

Varric knew he should seek the man out and apologize, but wrapped around his wife, he just couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. He’d do it later.


End file.
